Chapter 3: Hallways and Classrooms

High school is already a performance. I just took off the costume.

The thing about being naked at school is that you never get to clock out.

Not really. Even when you’re sitting in class, even when you’re taking notes, even when you’re chewing on the end of your pencil and trying to remember the quadratic formula, there’s a part of your brain that’s always aware of your skin. The way the plastic chair feels against your bare thighs. The way the fluorescent lights make your arms look paler than they are. The way the air moves when someone walks past your desk, stirring up little currents that brush against your ribs like fingers.

I’ve been doing this for two years. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. And I am, sort of. But “used to it” isn’t the same as “not thinking about it.” It’s more like background noise, a low hum that’s always there, that you only notice when it stops.

Today, the hum is louder than usual.

Maybe it’s the weather. November has settled into the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, the kind that makes you want to curl up under a blanket and not emerge until March. The walk to school was a miserable drizzle that turned into actual rain halfway there, and the wind cut through me like a knife. My nipples are still tight from the cold, even though we’ve been inside for twenty minutes. My fingers are numb. My hair is damp.

Willow is sitting next to me in first-period English, her knee pressed against mine under the desk. She’s wearing her avocado beanie and a sweater that’s two sizes too big, and she’s been giving me worried glances ever since we sat down.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m always shivering.”

“You’re shivering more than usual.”

I don’t have an answer for that. She’s right. The cold has been hitting me harder this year, not because my body has changed, but because I think I’m tired. Tired of being brave. Tired of pretending that walking through freezing rain with nothing on doesn’t cost me something.

Mr. Park is at the front of the room, talking about symbolism in The Great Gatsby. I’m supposed to be taking notes, but my hand is too cold to write legibly, so I’m just doodling in the margins of my notebook. Little spirals. Little eyes. Little question marks.

The register discrepancies are still on my mind. Last night, I checked my notebook, the small spiral one I keep hidden in my backpack, and added up the totals. Over the past six weeks, $847.30 has gone missing. That’s nothing. That’s someone’s rent. Someone’s car payment. Someone’s mother’s medication.

I don’t know that for sure. Not yet. But I have a feeling.

First Period: English

Fern Olympia is sitting two rows ahead of me, her long blonde hair pulled back in a braid. She’s nude, like me, but she’s wearing sandals today, the kind with the thick soles, the kind that make a slapping sound when she walks. She’s also wearing a hair tie around her wrist, which isn’t clothing but still feels like a concession, like she’s holding onto something just in case.

I’ve noticed that about Fern. She’s been in the program for eight months, but she still carries herself like someone who’s waiting for permission to relax. Her arms are always crossed, even when she’s not cold. She tucks her hair behind her ears constantly, a nervous gesture that makes her look younger than she is.

I want to tell her that it gets easier. I want to tell her that eventually, you stop thinking about the way people look at you. But that would be a lie. You never stop thinking about it. You just get better at pretending.

Mr. Park calls on me. “Kate, what do you think the green light represents?”

I blink. I haven’t been paying attention. “Hope,” I say, because that’s what everyone says about the green light. “It represents hope.”

“Can you elaborate?”

I glance at Willow. She gives me a small nod.

“It’s not just hope,” I say, buying myself time. “It’s a specific hope. It’s the hope that you can go back to something that’s already gone. Gatsby wants to repeat the past. That’s what the green light is, the illusion that you can fix things by wanting them badly enough.”

Mr. Park raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. Do you think the novel argues that this is possible?”

“No. I think it argues that it’s impossible, and that wanting it anyway is what destroys you.”

The class is quiet. Someone in the back row whispers something I can’t hear. Mr. Park nods slowly.

“That’s a sophisticated reading, Kate. Thank you.”

I sink back into my chair, my heart pounding. I don’t know where that answer came from. Maybe I’ve been thinking about my dad, about the way he keeps sending birthday cards like that’s enough, like paper can fix what broke. Maybe I’ve been thinking about Silas, about whatever he’s trying to fix with money he doesn’t have.

Maybe I’ve been thinking about all of us, standing on our own docks, staring at our own green lights.

Willow’s knee presses harder against mine. Under the desk, she takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. They’re always warm.

Willow Speaks: The Thing About Watching Kate in Class

You want to know what it’s like to sit next to the person you love when they’re the only naked person in the room?

It’s not what you think. It’s not sexy. It’s not distracting. It’s not even particularly interesting after a while.